


Cake or Death

by TheBestAtNotVeryNice



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Gen, Nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBestAtNotVeryNice/pseuds/TheBestAtNotVeryNice
Summary: Highlander/Bake Off Mash-up.Pastry and Immortality, what's not to like?





	1. Chapter 1

The goods lift crashes open, and Richie leans towards the tv while making the international symbol for ‘keep it down, will you’; palm flat, the arm is vigorously raised and lowered, as though patting an invisible mastiff. Mac shakes his head, and carries his grocery bag into the kitchen.

‘They were out of half and half, so you’ll have to make do with 1%.’

‘Alright, alright’

Rearranging the contents of the fridge door to make room, Mac shakes the suspiciously light orange juice carton; ‘Seriously, did you put an empty packet back in here? I’ve just been to the store!’

‘Sure, dude, sure.’

Mac sighs, and throws the used up carton into the trash. Leaving the rest of the shopping on the counter, he walks toward his semi-permanent houseguest, pushing his sleeves up his forearms and counting to ten silently. Rounding the coffee table, he sees the full scale of Richie’s inhabitation; the oily popcorn kernels scattered over the leather sofa, the precariously-balanced open can of cola on top of a beautifully bound volume of Plutarch’s Lives as though it were a coaster. The almost-certainly oil-stained biker boots casually dropped on the Persian carpet. For just a moment, the Highlander’s eyes settle on the elegant katana hanging on the wall. He blows out his cheeks out with a louder sigh, and crosses his arms. Richie continues to pay no attention. His eyes remain glued to the screen, even as Mac performatively fusses round the sofa picking up litter and muttering about ingratitude. Standing behind Richie, Mac finally catches sight of the programme being watched so attentively.

‘Hey, I thought I told you I didn’t want that crap in here? You want to watch those idiots compete, you can go to Joe’s.’

‘This is last week’s, man. I missed it, when you got lured into that trap by…’

‘I don’t care.’

On screen, a bubbly blonde English woman is consoling a man with a thick Russian accent;

‘Oh Alexei, this is perfectionism talking,’ Mel says, sipping her arm around his unmoving back. Alexei just stares coldly at a plate of pastries in front of him.

A second English woman appears, on the man’s other side. ‘Oooh. Those look creamy’

‘Apparently, it’s all gone in the cracks’.

‘Is it not supposed to?’

The camera frame closes in on the Russian man’s face, he still stares straight ahead, unsmiling.

‘Is that Voshin??’, Mac suddenly seems to forget that his hands are full of garbage, and leans on the back of the couch. Kernels of unpopped corn dribble out of the crumpled packet and down Richie’s collar.

‘Ah! Ew! What the…’ Richie leaps up, shaking out his shirt. He turns and snatches the microwave popcorn bag from his mentor’s hand. ‘Yeah, thanks Mac.’ But Duncan Macleod isn’t listening.

*****

A sled pulls across a snowy landscape near dawn, its moving fast, and the horses seem unchecked. Wrapped in furs, the driver slides sideways on the bench, barely conscious. A flask drops from his hand onto the wooden floor. The driver merely pulls his furs closer around him, and the sled moves onwards.

Macleod wakes suddenly, gasps in freezing air, and sits up in his nest of woollen blankets and furs. The horses have stopped, without guidance to lead them. He looks around at the landscape in confusion, and digs a map out of a pocket. Clearly, he is nowhere near where he should be. He groans and runs his hand over his eyes, as the glare of the sun on the snow combines with his hangover to cause maximum pain. Drawing a small telescope from the same pocket as had held the map, the frowning immortal locates an ornate tower appearing over the treeline ahead. He settles down into the sled, and takes up the reigns.

The sled approaches an ornate country house; the prominent gables, and decorate window surrounds suggest it is Russian revival style. A warmly, but not richly, dressed man comes from a side building to greet the visitor.

‘Is the Count expecting you?’

‘The count?’ Mac is surprised by the title, and looks up at the peeling paint of the house’s once beautiful face. The servant is, meanwhile looking at him. He sniffs a little too loudly while looking pointedly at the Scotman’s crumpled clothing. ‘I’m just… um, I’m needing directions?’ Mac is clearly struggling with the language, but he takes out a purse of coins and offers the man a couple.

‘You can go around the back, the kitchens. Leave this,’ the man is no friendlier, but he at least seems willing to care for the horses.

At the back of the mansion, Mac knocks on the door, but there’s no answer. A familiar feeling comes over him, and he turns to find an immortal watching him from a covered wagon. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword, even as his left rises to shield his eyes. The Russian immortal laughs.

‘You are in no fit state to fight me. And I would not insult you with such a challenge.’ He pours a steaming drink from a flask into an enamel cup, and offers it to Macleod. ’Here. I have also vatrushka. I am Voshin, Alexei Voshin.’

‘Duncan Macleod, of the clan Macleod.’ Duncan raises the cup to the man, before he drinks. He accepts the pastry offered to him. ‘This is good, do you make these?’

‘Sometimes. I trade. You?’

‘Oh, me. I’m a newspaperman. Well, I was before the war.’

‘Well, you don’t want to announce that loudly around here. But you have transport? Good. Follow me, I can show you in to town.’

*****

 

Here we are, born to be kings  
We're the princes of the universe

*****

It’s winding down in Joe’s bar, the band are stowing their gear and the last drinkers finishing up. Joe’s cleaning the taps, as the barman restocks the beer fridge.

‘Hey Joe’, Richie strolls in, and leans over the counter for a bowl of beer nuts, as though he was the owner.

‘Hi Richie’, Joe smiles, putting the bowl back on the counter, ‘Are you joining us tonight?’

‘For the screening? You bet! I wouldn’t miss it.’

‘Help me out with these chairs, will you?’ They move away from the staff by the bar, and start to put chairs on tables ready to mop the floor. ‘Do you need me to catch you up? Or did you watch the tape yet?’

‘I watched most of it, but then Mac got home, so…’

‘He’s not much of a one for blood sports, not these days.’

‘Macleod still thinks we should all live in secret, hide away, ruin every chance we have of ever having anything… real.’

‘You’re still smarting over the end of your racing career?’

‘No, well, kind of. But it’s not that. I mean, this whole thing, the gathering, its going to happen. Whether we like it or not. I don’t see why we can’t make it…’

‘Profitable?’ Joe raises an eyebrow, at the young immortal.

‘You make it sound cold. But some of us have partners, adopted kids, people we care about. Entering the series, knowing you’ll get the call; isn’t that better than being, like, stalked?’ Richie’s voice was rising, Joe looked round to ensure his employees were in the back. Richie continues, ‘I hear they got great security, you go in for it, and you don’t need to worry. You just… live your life.’

As they walk back towards the bar, heading to the back door, Joe watches his young friend closely. Ritchie’s hands are dug deep into his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunched, looking at the toes of his boots as he walks.

‘Wait’, Joe stops by the door, and puts his arm out across the doorway. ‘You’re not thinking of signing up are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Richie runs his hand back through his hair.

‘You’re way too young, to be thinking about that.’

‘Not that any of that matters. I mean, great, I’m immortal, I _could_ live for a thousand years. But I got born right before the Gathering, so we know that’s not going to happen.’

Joe nods, ‘Yeah, them’s the breaks. But, that doesn’t mean you go out there and basically ask to get your head chopped off.’

‘So, like, I reckon, I might as well have some fun with the whole not-dying thing. White-water rafting, trekking in the jungles, sky-diving…’ Richie looks a Joe, and tips his head to the side, almost as if he’s asking for permission.

‘Yeah’, Joe smiles at him, and moves through the doorway, holding it open for Richie to follow him, ‘I think that sounds great.’ He turns the lights out as they leave.

*****

Mac is sitting on his sofa, his hands on his knees. The area around the coffee table is once again free of fast-food detritus. A single glass of malt whiskey sits on an actual coaster, and the Plutarch is back on the shelf, all volumes in the correct order. He finishes the last finger of scotch, and looks at the clock. It’s late. He puts a pillow and a folded blanket on one end of the sofa, and heads off to bed, leaving only a lamp on in the dark.

In the morning sunlight, Mac goes to the fridge, and too late remembers there’s no juice.

‘Richie, could you at least contribute…’ Mac cuts off mid-sentence, as he sees the blanket still folded neatly where he left it the night before.


	2. Chapter 2

*****

Mac strides through the back door of Joe’s bar. It’s not yet open, and the chairs are still upside down on the tables. Joe is sitting on the stage with his guitar; he doesn’t seem surprised at the intrusion.

‘Its been a long time.’

‘Where is he?’, Mac glowers at Joe, hands on his hips. ‘And the answer better not be some tent in England.’

‘You really think I’d encourage that kid to risk his life like that?’

Mac shrugs, lifting both his hands and eyebrows at Joe, in a gesture dripping with sarcasm and distrust.

Joe shakes his head, and lays his guitar down; ‘We used to be friends. I really hate that you have such a low opinion of me.’

‘Don’t give me that. Your kind started this.’

‘My kind?’ Joe snaps.

‘Oh, you’re going to tell me this isn’t some watcher’s get-rich-quick scheme?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Joe strides towards the bar, and Mac turns to follow him.

‘Really, you lap that stuff up. Week after week, you practically have a party every Tuesday.’

‘We watch, Mac. It’s our job. That’s it, that’s all. You think we’re cheering?’

‘It’s barbaric!’

‘Everything about this game is barbaric, my friend. Is formalising the competition so much worse than losing your head in a parking garage, or abandoned warehouse?

Mac sighs, and drops onto a bar stool; ‘It’s happened before, you know.’

‘The last fight club was recorded in Petrograd, 1919. And it wasn’t started by a watcher.’

‘I know. I was there.’ Mac smiles, but his eyebrows lower as he turns away from the watcher.

*****

The covered wagon makes its way down the snowy street of tall, brick buildings with regularly spaced windows. It turns into another street. The uniformity of the building fronts, and the snow, make the surroundings indistinguishable. Mac sits beside the driver, he smiles and nods at his conversation, but every so often he looks out at the street and seems concerned.

‘You see why selling the sled outside the city was best? There are always too many people on the streets these days.’

‘Thank you for the help. I can find my way, I'm sure. All I need is an inn, and a hot bath.’

‘You think I’m going to release you to the care of strangers? Nonsense! Come and stay with me. The war rages between red and white, and you are unknown, a foreigner. Best you draw no attention to yourself.’ Voshin’s logic is unmistakable, but there is something in his friendly manner that seems forced. Mac smiles and nods at the man, but he’s scanning his surroundings at every opportunity.

The wagon turns into a narrow arch through one of the plain fronted buildings. A young man takes control of the horses, and the cart. Voshin grabs a small bag from behind the seat, and guides his guest into a large, ornate double doorway. They continue up a staircase of cast iron and marble, it’s dimly lit, but the surroundings look finely decorated, with scrolled plasterwork on the ceiling and walls.

Near the top of the stair case, Voshin throws open a pair of gold-embossed doors. And gestures for Mac to walk through. The apartment is beautiful, and full of riches. It’s a stark contrast to the drab clothing of the host, and the plain wooden wagon below.

‘When you said that you trade’, Mac runs his hand over an exquisite marquetry writing desk, ‘you didn’t mean baked goods, did you?’

Voshin laughs, and opens his arms to gesture at the various contents of his palatial rooms.

‘A little of this, a little of that. The uncertainty of the present situation, it provides opportunities. Business opportunities. Excuse me a minute.’ Voshin takes the little canvas bag in his hand into another room. Mac positions himself carefully by the large mirror propped above the mantelpiece, and watches his host access a safe hidden inside a large armoire. He turns away, and quickly takes up a china figurine to examine.

‘A fine piece. Dresden.’ Voshin is back in the room, and with his shark’s smile he approaches Mac.

‘Meissen I would say, to be precise.’ Mac smiles back broadly at Voshin. Their eyes meet, and neither is willing to be the first to break contact.

‘Well, you must be exhausted. You said a bath, a shave perhaps?’ The Russian exudes bonhomie.

Mac sets the china girl back on her side table by the fire, ‘That would be most welcome.’

*****

A motorcycle rides through the dust of the Nevada desert. Against all safety advice, but in keeping with the scorching temperatures, the rider wears a loose singlet, and a pair of tan shorts. A hand painted sign by the side of the dusty road advertises an extreme sports and adventure holiday company. The rider pulls over in front of it.

‘Man, it’s hot!’ Richie Ryan reaches into the pack on the back of his bike, and brings out a large bottle of high factor suntan lotion. Slathering the white lotion up either arm, Richie looks around at the empty landscape. ‘This better be worth it. If the fall doesn’t kill me, the sun might.’

Richie finishes with the sun cream, and brings another bottle out of his pack. As he drinks deep from a water canteen, he sees the distinctive v-shape of the circling vultures above him.

‘I’m not dead yet!’ he yells up at them. ‘Oh man, I wonder what happens if a vulture tries to eat an immortal. Do you come back missing an eye? Or, is that crows that eat eyes?’

Richie replaces the bottles in his pack, runs his hands through his hair, and gets ready to put his helmet back on. Looking back up at the birds of prey, he says ‘Maybe I should have actually listened to Mac’s gross battlefield stories.’

He rides off, taking the next right turn, towards the Grand Canyon.  


*****

Mac sits at Charlie’s old desk in the office of the Dojo. In front of him is a pile of hastily scribbled notes, and scraps of paper.

‘No, I don’t know where he is. _I_ called _you_!’ He bangs the phone receiver back into its cradle, crumples a scrap of paper and throws it into the trash can. He leans back in his chair, and puts his hands behind his head.

Joe walks through the gym space, carefully avoiding sparing fighters and weight lifters. He raises his hand to knock on the open door.

‘Hi Joe,’ Mac doesn’t lower his eyes from the ceiling.

Joe looks surprised, but then looks down at his walking stick and shrugs. He takes the chair opposite the desk.

‘I told you, he wanted some adventure. He’s off surfing Big Sur, or canoeing through the Rockies.’

‘Uh huh,’ Mac tips forward in his chair to face Joe, placing his hands on the desk. ‘And where would he get the money for that sort of adventure? From _these_ people.’ Mac shakes a handful of paper scraps at Joe.

‘Did any of them tell you that? No? The stop worrying about a problem that probably doesn’t exist.’

‘You’re right. There are plenty of problems that are all too real. Did you bring those tapes?’

‘Against my better judgement’, Joe reaches for a small, dark gym bag at his feet. ‘I smuggled them out, and I want them back. I am in enough trouble with the watchers right now.’

‘And it’s all my fault, as usual?’ Mac, walks round the desk and takes the bag from Joe, hovering in clear expectation that the watcher take his leave.

‘At least I usually know what you’re up to, or up against. But I just don’t see the problem here. So, the competition’s been televised. No-one really believes the losers are beheaded, they think it’s all special effects.’ Joe is taking his time, getting out of his chair, fussing unnecessarily with his cane. ‘If the other immortals want to formalise the competition - have some, I don’t know, _fun_ with it - why does it bother you so much?

Mac looks out into the gym, and pushes the office door closed.

‘How much do you know about, Alexei Voshin?’

*****

In the middle of a beautiful room, with gold wall sconces for candles, and a marble floor, an old fashioned copper bathtub is steaming. Mac is shaving with a pearl handled cut-throat razor, over a marble washstand with ornate gold legs. He puts the razor down on the stand, as he washes his face. He pauses, thinking he hears the creak of the door. Wiping the water and soap from his face with a towel, he turns toward the door, but the noise is coming from a small closet in the corner of the room, where fresh towels are kept. Dressed only in a towel around his waist, Mac takes a delicate Louis XV chair from against the wall, and jams its gilt back rest under the door handle.

Reassured that he is, in fact, alone. Mac drops his towel, and steps into the tub. He leans back in the warm water and breathes deeply. Within seconds, he’s drifting into sleep. He struggles against the feeling, but is quickly unconscious.

He wakes up in very different surroundings; on a bed of straw, in a stone walled cellar. He sits up quickly, and hears chains clanking. There’s fetters around his ankles. He’s relieved to find he is back in his own shirt and pants, however.

‘That was a rather nice chair you decided to destroy, Mr Macleod.’ Voshin approaches from the door way, ‘I’ll be factoring that in to the odds I give you.’

‘What the hell are you up to, you black market thief.’

Voshin shakes his head; ‘There’s no need for such insults. We all know the game, it’s about keeping your head, no?’

The Russian steps out of Mac’s sightline, revealing a grander vaulted room beyond the heavy cell door. Wooden benches are being set up on either side of the low hall. Racks of weaponry line the opposing walls.

‘I shall let you watch tonight’s match from here, you won’t get a particularly good view. But then, you’re not paying for the privilege.’ Voshin laughs as he walks out into the well-lit fencing arena.

Soon, the seats are filled with excited ticket holders. Voshin walks into the middle of the hall, and raises his hands, and a cheer goes up before an expectant hush descends. Two men are led into the wide centre aisle between the benched seats, and the hubbub of the crowd builds again, as they assess the condition of the fighters. Voshin’s agents stalk the crowd, collecting bets.

‘You all know the rules’, Voshin shouts. The crowd quietens. ‘One will live tonight, one will die tonight; one will stand, and one will fall.’

Mac takes a closer look at the two immortals set to battle to the death. He doesn’t recognise either, and he lets out a sigh of relief. One is a broad, stocky Mongolian. The other, a tall and proud looking Scandinavian. Neither is currently fettered, and Mac considers just how many guards and locked doors there must be between him and freedom, if those two are willing to stand docile in the face of Voshin’s gladiatorial profiteering.

At the banging of an unseen gong, the fight begins. The shorter warrior chooses a long handled halberd, as the Viking reaches leaps for a pair of long knives, or short swords. They’re experienced fighters, they chose their weapons and stances well, playing to their strengths and familiarities. The competition is fierce, and the audience are more than once forced to scatter and run, or risk their own impalement. But in the end, the Scandinavian lies pinned to the floor, as his opponent leans his weight on a spear that pierces his torso. The audience are filing out, collecting their winnings or handing over their losses. Voshin approaches the bloody tableau and gestures for the winner to move away. Once the Mongol is guarded by the stewards, the Russian takes out his own weapon, a longsword, and unceremoniously takes the dying Viking's head.

Voshin receives the quickening, and rises to his feet. He gestures towards the previously successful fighter, who now looks disgusted and demoralised. The fight does not last long. Before the longsword separates head from body a second time, his victim locks eyes with Mac, in the dark of his cell, and he calls out to him.

As the bodies are dragged away, as though they were so much refuse, Voshin swaggers his way to the door of Mac’s jail.

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He told me his name.’

‘Is that all?’ The smug victor, cleans his sword, rather than make eye contact.

‘And, he says that you have no honour.’

Voshin, looks up, anger briefly in his expression; ‘Much good your honour has done you, Highlander.’

He swings the door closed.

*****

The darkness of the memory of the cell matches the darkness in Charlie’s office. Mac has set up the television and video on top of a filing cabinet. He doesn’t want to watch the game played out for television ratings in his own apartment. He puts the first of Joe’s video tapes into the machine, and sits heavily in the office chair. As the cheerful BBC announcer’s voice invites him to watch a new, and very special, series, he pours himself a stiff measure of Glenmorangie. The glass stops at his lips as he hears the theme tune; ‘One will live tonight, one will die tonight; One will stand and one will fall; One in victory, one in misery; Only one will take it all’.

‘No honour. And no shame.’ Mac takes a deep gulp of his drink, and settles in to watch.

*****


End file.
